Matters of Perspective
by soBeautifullyObsessed
Summary: We all have thoughts we fear revealing to those we love. Sometimes we worry that expressing the depth of our feelings might frighten them, even drive them away. Sometimes we think acknowledging such feelings will make us appear weak, vulnerable, merely ordinary. A love story pure & simple. Romantics may enjoy, if they have patience for an OC being worthy of such affections.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES:** Of course I do not own Sherlock Holmes, and stand in marvel at the creation of all the Artists that have made the BBC Sherlock so wondrous, compelling, and downright addictive. All credit to them, and to Sir Authur Conan Doyle to begin with. They have conceived in me an undeniable _need_ to write-fancifully and pleasingly, I can only pray.

The idea for this piece came about from having lots of little bits & pieces of prose, written on whim or in the dead of night when sleep eludes me. I've stored them away, wondering if the opportunity might ever come to incorporate them into the larger narrative I've been telling. Honestly, they are like children to me, and who wants to keep a child forever in the dark? I know it's also vanity that makes me publish them now, and I will beg pardon of you, Kind Reader, for that's a character trait I have not yet been able to escape. Take them as you will, with patience I beg, as in this I shall attempt to show the unspoken thoughts and feelings of two people falling in love.

Ultimately, its a Love Story, pure & simple. Because I truly believe that only a gentle, kindly, hopeful Soul would have the patience to plumb the depths of Sherlock's lonely, beautiful heart. That it would have to be Someone unafraid of both living fully in the moment & of embracing their emotions—joys & sorrows alike—that could teach him it is okay to express the things he'd locked away. I know there's only a wee corner of the fandom that can allow for such a way of thinking, but it's the only story I know how to tell right now.

**Matters of Perspective**

_We all have thoughts we fear revealing to the ones we love. Sometimes we worry that expressing the depth of our feelings might frighten our beloved, and even drive them away. Tessa DeMauro lived in that shadow for a time—until her natural inclinations made clear what she was hesitant to speak aloud._

_Sometimes we believe even acknowledging such feelings to ourselves (let alone to the one we find—to our great surprise—we love) would make us appear weak, vulnerable and merely ordinary. Such was the way of it for Sherlock Holmes, a man completely unaccustomed to feeling love, let alone allowing himself to be the object of someone's keenest affections._

* * *

><p><strong><span>Sherlock POV<span>**

_(late May)_

_"People say there's no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead." -_Sherlock Holmes

Like his brother Mycroft, Sherlock believed—no, he _knew_—that the Universe provided little opportunity for coincidence. It was in his preteen years that he realized his own unique gifts allowed him to discern the patterns within patterns all around him, and the rich, astounding symmetry that played out across the physical world. Or course, that particular gift came with a steep price—a well-disciplined mind, coolness of thought in observation, detachment from the unpredictability of emotions—but he had chosen early on to pay that price, eager to sacrifice "normalcy" for the chance to go through life as extraordinary.

True, there had been times in his life, when regret nagged at him. Regret for the things he'd missed out on, regret that he was continually the outsider, and occasionally, regret of his almost constant solitude. Thankfully, that regret only came in his darkest hours, when his mind was left to wander without the incessant stimulus he craved; those were the times that had led to the addiction that lived beneath his flesh, ready to assert itself if he found himself in an emotionally compromised state. That escape, though, was no longer as necessary as it once had been. A man—a good, decent, honorable man—had seen past the many flaws that Sherlock's necessary detachment created in him. Not only seen past, but understood that they were part and parcel of what made him so brilliant, and enabled him to do good in the world, even when his motivation was far from altruistic. John Watson had befriended him, he who once had no friends, only acquaintances and adversaries. For that grace, Sherlock was forever grateful—to John, and to the Universe itself.

But why this avenue of thought, at this particular time? Why was he pondering the question of coincidence? Because a lifetime of believing in the rarity of coincidence advised him now that he was where he was _meant_ to be, the corollary then being: Tessa was meant to be part of his life. It was a stunning thought, especially when he considered the path it took to get him here, to this moment in time when she lay sleeping at his side, sated from their lovemaking. He never could have envisioned this, never even dreamed he'd want this. Yet here he was, and happy was too inadequate a word to describe how he felt.

His mind scrolled through the events of the past several weeks. How unlikely it was that they had even met, for if John had booked the tickets to _Twelfth Night_ for even the day before or after, she would have been part of the Ensemble, unnoticed in the background, rather than fulfilling her role as understudy to the lead. Sherlock would not have vaguely recognized her from a boring afternoon spent shopping with John, nor would John (reading her biography in the programme) have realized he knew Tessa from some years back, when he had met her through a friend. Such an unlikely series of events that caused them to actually meet—Sherlock could not believe was mere coincidence. And that a woman of such patience (enduring patience, he reminded himself) and a kind and loving heart could look upon him with such favor—it boggled the mind to think it might not have happened at all, but for Mrs. Hudson's birthday falling on the calendar when it did. Indeed, he felt he had the Universe to thank for his great fortune.

Sherlock knew, that in her way, Tessa would agree. She'd likely call it Fate, or an answer to some prayer or other she might have muttered in her own loneliness. He knew she believed in a Higher Power; she called herself a lapsed Catholic, yet at times still wore a tiny cross of gold about her neck. But she had educated herself in philosophy and world religions, and her eclectic belief system was well-grounded, even if he couldn't entirely agree with her findings. She believed in the gentle hand of a loving Creator, and maintained that when she trusted such, the things she needed most were provided for. He found her honest faith refreshing and quite dear.

And so she had led him forward, a little at a time. In the beginning, he had told himself it was curiosity alone that spurred him to meet with her for dinner, or drinks, or visits to museums or parks. Intellectual stimulation and observing a new (and very feminine) perspective, so opposite his own. Along the way, though, as she made no attempt to conceal how she cared for him, it was her kindness and softness that he looked forward to, and finally her charming kisses had disarmed him enough to make him miss her when they were apart. Looking back, it seemed to him he hadn't so much as made the choices that got him here, as he had allowed a compelling new pattern to assert itself in his life.

Tessa, still slumbering, moved onto her back. The light of early dawn was coming through the window blinds, and illuminated the room enough to allow Sherlock to study her face in quiet repose. He found himself focusing on a smattering of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose, fanning out upon her skin as though an artist had stippled it with the lightest touches of a brush. Sherlock had noted them before, a pleasant sort of constellation, that was easily covered with the makeup Tessa favored for everyday wear (so much lighter than that which she wore onstage), but he'd failed to notice before now how sweetly they complimented her fair complexion. Wrapped as Tessa was in quiet, satisfied sleep, he was realizing the small details of her face and form made for a dearer inventory than he ever would have expected.

This was a woolgathering of sorts that Sherlock did not normally engage in, but in light of their intimacy, left him marveling, seeing her casual beauty with eyes unfiltered by his usual detachment. It was both dizzying and divine and it made him a bit greedy for her to open her eyes and see he wanted her again. He reminded himself that patience was a virtue he should practice for Tessa's sake, and so laid his head next to hers upon the pillow, closing his eyes, relishing the thought of the hours and hours ahead that lay in store for them.

His last conscious thought before he fell to sleep—she was lovely, yes indeed, by _any_ standard, but he had never placed much stock in physical appearances; so when he called her beautiful it was as much for her gentle spirit, the things she taught him (and was teaching still), and the way she made him feel. In short, she made him feel loved, a gift he might have gone a lifetime without experiencing otherwise. And if _that_ turned out to be the result of "coincidence", he wished never to live in a world where coincidence didn't rule the day.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Tessa POV<span>**

_(early June)_

Tessa DeMauro was deeply, hopelessly in love—and the one person she had vowed not to tell was the man who owned her heart—Sherlock Holmes.

After weeks and weeks of waiting, he had finally taken her to bed, and it had been gloriously worth the wait. Now each day, each moment, spent with him, Tessa found herself falling deeper and deeper, so that now she was so immersed in him, she couldn't see daylight if she wanted to.

In her natural state, Tessa was profoundly emotional, easily moved and fearless in expression. This condition ideally suited her in the career she'd chosen (or that had chosen her—the line between them had never been clearly defined), but might be a keen disadvantage in her relationship with one so seemingly aloof and dispassionate. Yet she believed she saw how Sherlock's heart actually was, and that he felt things strongly but chose not to let them rule him. There was passion there, no doubt, and she had seen and experienced its muster; those first few nights alone had thrown hazy shadows across the memories of any lovers she'd ever had, including Hal.

Tessa felt the key with Sherlock was to be _balanced._ Not to give in to the desire to text him at random moments, just to see if he would send a witty or flirtatious response back. Not to dote on him so very much at dinner, while he recounted his brilliance in solving an elusive case. And by any power on earth, not to tell him she adored him every other sentence, even though that was exactly what she felt in his presence. For his sake—and for the sake of keeping him interested in her—she must temper her emotions and expressions every day. Now _that_ required Acting!

Tessa was certain Sherlock was completely unaware of the grace with which he moved through the world. She yearned, at times, to point it out to him, but if she did she was sure he wouldn't understand—or even believe it possible—and then she'd have tipped her hand.

For his part, there were signs his feelings ran deeper than he would ever care to admit. First, Tessa noticed very quickly that the sharp wit and acerbic tongue he often turned on the foolish or incompetent that crossed his path—and even, at times, upon his best friend and their motherly landlady—had not once been used against her. That surely accounted her some distinction in his mind.

Then there was the fact that, if she allowed too much time to elapse before she called or texted him, he would eventually contact her. In the beginning it was on some pretext, saying he was in the neighborhood on a case for example; but since becoming intimate, it was more like to be him inquiring—in a roundabout way—as to why he hadn't heard from her, _"Lost service for_ _a bit today. Were you trying to reach me?"_ Or _"Extremely busy day—think I_ _might've missed your text."_ She always played it as though she believed his every reason as stated, when inside she dared to be thrilled that he might be missing her.

There was, of course, his mighty pride, an awesome thing to behold. He wore it like his greatcoat, aloof and seemingly unassailable. While others saw this as haughty, Tessa saw an armor that he'd built layer by layer to protect his insecurities; armor to hide a lifetime of the scars of being misunderstood, misinterpreted, or simply left behind as an outsider unable to understand the nuances of emotion.

And the way he wore those scars…..that was perhaps the single most thing that had plucked at her heartstrings. The quiet dignity with which he carried on, the strength of purpose with which he met each day, these were a denial of any pain of loss and disappointment. It was as if Sherlock thought to admit to such human frailty would make the world think he was less than what he truly was. And so to the world he said it mattered not a whit, nor had it ever mattered, for he was above such trivial things.

But Tessa knew better. She already knew his heart better than Sherlock himself, and all she wanted was to be the balm for those scars, in some small way at least.

Quite simply, Sherlock was entirely unused to being loved. Tessa felt a deep well inside herself, filled with all the things she longed to give him, if only the small cracks in his armor would let her in. She knew she had to be patient, but at times the waiting ached so bad.

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**_An Accidental Revelation_**

_(early June)_

His relative lack of experience did not prove to be a detriment to their enjoyment, nor did her celibacy since her last relationship. Instead, Sherlock relished as much in the learning curve as in her curves, much to both of their delights. He was the most ardent of students, and Tessa remarked happily more than once that his voraciousness might just well wear her out. Each eagerly explored the other to find what would please the best, and both found it to be precious time well spent.

So far from his limited, youthful experience—and as opposite as night the day—Sherlock discovered the most astonishing thing of all: that themind was as much a part of their intimacies as the physical. Certainly it was one of the sweetest surprises Tessa had brought to his life. The sweetest addiction too, if he was completely honest with himself.

It was following such an interlude, when he'd experienced again her exquisite clenching and unclenching, something gave him pause to consider what his intentions were and what he truly wanted. She turned onto her side to nuzzle against his chest, as she so often did, giving a purr of contentment. He could hear in her voice sleep was near. "Thank you, Sherlock," the sleepy whisper came, "thank you for opening up my heart again. I never thought I could be happy like this again, never even thought I'd want to be." In response, he kissed the crown of her head, a low sound of satisfaction thrumming in his throat. All was right, it seemed.

But with sleep stealing her away, Tessa said the words Sherlock had been dreading. She probably didn't even realize she'd said them, half in the world of dreams already. "…love you…" As warm as their embrace was, as comforting as the blankets they were wrapped in, he felt a cold sliver of fear pierce him.

Adrenalized immediately, there'd be no comfy winding down for him this night. This was something he had to figure out without delay. Of course he'd known it might come eventually, but he'd pushed it to the nethermost reaches of his mind as unfamiliar territory, best left alone. Would she remember what she'd said when she awoke? What could he possibly say in reply? If he didn't say the precise right thing, would it break her? Tessa had willingly shared her vulnerabilities with him—something Sherlock normally took for weakness in a person, but understood in her that revealing vulnerabilities was actually part of her talent as an actress. The searching it out in a character and revealing it to an audience was part of the catharsis that people went to the theatre to experience, so he could hardly view that as a weakness in her. And thus having allowed for that, Sherlock had quickly found her openness endearing, while she'd never asked more than he was ready to reveal to her. That was the equilibrium that was now at hazard.

And so it led him to a most fitful night, sleep elusive for the balance of the hours. Sherlock had done his level best not to disturb Tessa's peaceful rest—until he finally fell asleep himself, and if he dreamed, he couldn't recall them later. Tessa awakened before him, moved in moments at how his face and form looked in such repose, younger by years without the weight of the heavy cares he often carried. She knew she could wake him and they could make love again, but knowing there would be time enough for that on this lazy Sunday, she decided instead to surprise him with breakfast in bed. She slipped quietly from his side, donned a favorite old robe, and headed for her kitchen.

She decided to make French toast, using the little secrets her grandmother had shared with her in her early teenage years, a few special ingredients that would serve to make the toast extra sweet. That should please him, Tessa thought warmly, knowing well his sweet tooth (one they shared, a source of many secret smiles between them when in a public setting). Moving about her little kitchen, she felt so happy and light of heart she began to hum, softly at first, and gradually building in volume as she became absorbed in her task. She was singing before she even realized it.

Sherlock eventually woke to hear her movements, her cheery music, sung in her pleasant contralto, and for a time forgot the fear of what might come next. It's was just damn wonderful to hear such happiness and actually believe he might be, in some part, the source. It was several minutes before he recalled that he hadn't yet figured out exactly what to say to her about her sleepy admission, and by that time Tessa had popped her head inside the door to rouse him from his sleep, "Hungry, darling?" she asked, her good spirits irrepressible, "I've made you something special."

Sherlock, acting for her benefit as though she had only just woken him, stirred to sit up and lean against the headboard, "Thank god for that, I'm famished." And in fact, he was—for time spent in Tessa's arms often left him in need of replenishing. Yet there remained in him a seed of worry that Tessa might broach the topic of her accidental revelation of the night before.

She promptly pushed the door open, bearing a well-laden white wicker tray. Sherlock quickly scooted over a bit, to allow her to sit on the edge of the bed, placing the tray between them. Tessa seemed to have thought of everything; coffee with his usual allotment of sugar, orange juice for the both of them, sliced strawberries and very delicious looking French toast, lightly dusted with confectioner's sugar. His mouth immediately watered at the sight and the aromas.

As they tucked in, sharing idle small talk—as he complimented her on the repast, and she told him of her cooking lessons at her grandmother's side, Sherlock was wondering still if that heavy shoe was eventually going to drop, remaining at a loss for how he might respond. The minutes passed, and passed some more; Tessa was chatting casually, happily, telling him a funny story of Sylvie's daughters, while serving seconds onto his plate without a care-not needing to be asked, yet knowing he would be glad to have them. It dawned on Sherlock that perhaps Tessa did not remember her sleepy words; that perhaps he had struggled with his worry through the night needlessly. She spoke not a word, nor seemed to have even a recollection of telling him she loved him. He felt the weight that had pressed upon him earlier begin to lighten, and the meal he'd been enjoying began to taste even sweeter.

When they had finally finished, Tessa moved the tray to the trunk at the base of her bed, coming to settle beside Sherlock atop the blankets. She planted an innocent kiss upon his cheek as she asked him, "So, what shall we do today?" waiting in smiling patience for whatever he might suggest.

In that moment, in the face of her guileless, expectant gaze, he realized at last a marvelous truth. There was no need to fret or act or worry, for he was safe for the moment. She wanted nothing of him but companionship right now, something she had taught him he was fully able to give. And with that insight, he understood as well, that for the first time in his adult memory someone actually loved him. Loved him for good and for all, forall that he was and with no reservations, even when so many others that passed his way saw him as a freak or worse. Tessa loved him, and he had never had such a glory before.

She surely saw some indication of his thoughts upon his face. She tilted her head, perplexed, her eyebrows drawing together with the question, "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Nothing, my dear," he answered with equanimity, kissing her between the eyes. It left her with a dreamy expression. Sherlock couldn't resist teasing her gently, "Well, you look…..content."

She sighed softly, "More than content. I'm happy. That's so much more, don't you think?"

He simply raised a brow in answer.

"What about you?" she asked, with the same teasing air, "Are you….?"

Sherlock didn't give her a chance to finish the question "Happy?" He paused enough to make her wonder just how he would answer. "Sublimely. And in ways I never imagined possible." Tessa laid her head against his shoulder, satisfied at that, unaware that—as so often was the case-she'd effortlessly given him a gift he'd never looked for in his life. He knew the day would come when he might have to face those actual "three little words", but for the present, he had the luxury of her company without concern for whatever complications those words might bring.


	3. Reservations for Dinner

_(Sunday evening, summer, the theatre is dark, so they had_ _reservations for a fine restaurant, but Sherlock suddenly got a brilliant answer to a troubling question in a perplexing case. It required him to rush out of the flat to seek confirmation of his theory. His instructions to John? "Tell Tessa I won't be long, but we may be late for dinner.")_

Tessa was extremely excited about the night ahead. She'd even splurged on a new dress, sleeveless with a plunging back and a soft ruffle at the hem, her hair pinned lightly in a soft up-do (the better to allow him to kiss her neck should the evening follow its natural course). "Three times the charm" she said under her breath as she mounted the stairs to the Boys' flat (she had recently begun to think of them in that term, as when they were together they often reminded her of a couple of schoolboys with an uncanny knack for mischief). This, as it turned out, was a much delayed birthday gift. Of course, Tessa had not told Sherlock when her birthday came around; it had been much too early in the relationship to make any sort of deal about it. Beside which she was sensitive about the march of time, and like so many actresses she knew, would soon be subtracting years instead of adding them. But with his usual flair for the dramatic, somehow Sherlock had known the date and had suggested an upscale dinner in celebration. She still wondered how he deduced that, deduced her; he wouldn't give her even a hint, only smiling mysteriously when she asked. Frankly she wondered at times if perhaps he hadn't simply googled her; she'd spent enough time in his company to know his brilliant flash wasn't _always_ from his genius.

Unfortunately, his casework had caused him to cancel their date twice already. Tessa had actually found herself questioning whether those delays weren't his way of somehow testing her staying power, perhaps to see if she was truly worthy to be part of his small inner circle. If so, she was as firmly determined to prove herself to merit a place in his life, as she was that this delayed dinner _was_ going to happen this evening.

The door to the flat was ajar, so she stepped right in, calling out to Sherlock to let him know she'd arrived. John popped his head around the corner from the kitchen. "Tessa," he started, a tone of regret clear in his voice. Instinct told her he was not the bearer of happy news. She shook her head in disappointment and fetched a loud, exasperated sigh. "Really, John? Really?"

"I'm afraid so, Tessa. You know how it goes. If it's any consolation, he said he won't be long." But the look on his face showed John didn't believe that promise any more than she did.

"What was it this time?" she asked, dropping her handbag and summer jacket onto the chair usually reserved for clients. Plan revised already, there was no question she would wait Sherlock out this time.

John shrugged, hedging on his answer, "He really didn't give me any details. I wish I could tell you more." He probably knew more, she guessed, but the details might be such as to make her worry for Sherlock's safety.

"Yet he couldn't even wait long enough to tell me himself?" she responded, "Or even just to say goodbye?" The hurt was clear in her expression.

John, of course, could sympathize "Yes, well, he does that you know. Usually leaving me holding the bag. If you haven't noticed, he can be quite brusque with the human heart."

Tessa looked down, saying quietly, "Yes. He can be quite brusque with his own heart as well." She drew a deep sigh, resigned herself to be patient, and sat down on the sofa. "Is it all right if I stay a while? In case he turns up sooner than later?"

John gave her a sympatheticsmile, "Of course. I've got nothing on this evening; I'd enjoy your company." Tessa could tell he was sincere, and for that at least she was grateful.

And so they passed the time in idle conversation, with several lapses; John asked about the progress of rehearsals for her current show, and she shared a few anecdotes about the cast that served to lighten the mood. Both were ever careful to avoid mention of the elephant _not_ in the room. When the discussion lagged the longest, John asked if she wanted to watch television, and Tessa agreed. He flipped through several channels until he found a comic programme he thought they'd both enjoy

Tessa was doing her best not to check the time. She knew it would do no good, and it would be useless still to try and text or even call Sherlock. Eventually John offered her something to drink; it was dinner hour now, and she gladly accepted a glass of wine. That relaxed the room a bit; both had come to realize Sherlock was not returning anywhere near in time to make their reservation. John finally suggested they order in some dinner, since they were both quite hungry by then. They decided on Chinese, and John graciously treated her, when she insisted on splitting the bill. "You were promised dinner," he told her, "and I'll be damned to see you disappointed yet again."

* * *

><p>They had nearly polished off the bottle of merlot, drinking it slowly over the course of the evening. Their conversation had been relaxed, and John had finally gotten around to asking after all the little details of the courtship that Sherlock had kept hidden from him for so long. Tessa was only too happy to share those pleasant memories, for at least it provided a feel of Sherlock's presence in the room; she had finally, quietly accepted there would be no dining out tonight, but she was determined to wait him out regardless—not for any sort of scolding, but because she simply wanted to see him safely home, hoping too for some time spent in his arms.<p>

John couldn't help but smile as Tessa told him of those early weeks. The occasion was far too rare when he'd witnessed his friend moved by _any_ woman's charms. The attraction/repulsion Sherlock had demonstrated towards the Adler woman was about all that came to mind, unless you counted the often prickly relationship that he had with Molly Hooper. Behind Sherlock's blithe, often curt or flippant, sometimes even careless treatment of the quiet specialist registrar of St. Bart's morgue, John had witnessed a growing respect for her as a professional and as a friend. So the fact that Tessa had somehow gotten past Sherlock's defenses, past his distaste for sentiment of any sort, and had evinced in him romantic feelings, remained a seven day wonder to John. It had softened Sherlock's edges in a way he never would have imagined. John liked what Tessa had brought to the table, and hoped Sherlock wouldn't muck up this unlikely chance at happiness.

Tessa was waxing poetic—well, at this stage of the affair, John thought, I suppose she thinks that just about everything Sherlock does is nearly perfect. He wondered how long such things as standing her up for dinner would be considered acceptable as part of his mercurial nature. He wondered if her heart was deep enough to bear the cost of the neglect that might assert itself eventually.

"…amazing and brilliant and completely wonderful." Tessa paused, finishing her glass of wine, then pondered aloud, "But he can't see that at all, can he?"

An answer to that gave John pause. On the surface, Sherlock was confident, with an ego to match his growing reputation. Yet John also knew that such bravado sometimes masked his sense of inadequacy in the worlds of social interaction and human relationships.

"Of course, in some things he knows he's exceptional." Tessa had taken his silence in stride, continuing on in her analysis, "His genius, his laser focus, his ability to rise above it all, above emotions. But that's not what makes him so singularly spectacular, is it?"

John nodded vigorously, realizing Tessa knew Sherlock even better than he'd have thought. "Yes. It's always the unexpected with Sherlock. Just when you think he doesn't get it, he surprises by doing the perfect thing that you didn't even realize was _exactly_ what was needed. He's just got that remarkable talent."

Tessa shook her head, a half-smile breaking through. "That's part of the wonder that is Sherlock, isn't it!" She laughed lightly, "But he'd never credit himself with such a gift." Tessa looked down a moment, and when she looked back at John, he could see she'd grown serious. "He deserves to be loved, John. To have someone love him with every breath they take."

John tilted his head a bit, "Well _you_ do, don't you?" He knew the answer before he asked the question; it was clear from the light in her eyes when she merely spoke Sherlock's name that she was completely smitten. It made him happy for his friend, but frustrated as well—as far as John could tell, Sherlock hadn't a clue as to how bad Tessa had fallen for him.

Tessa closed her eyes, sighing, "God help me, yes."

"Well, then a little thing like this _doesn't_ really matter in the big picture, does it?" John was surprised to find himself even saying it, but it was swiftly dawning on him that _despite_ Sherlock's many flaws, he had unwittingly found a woman who not only understood his quirks and eccentricities, but realized they were so much a part of all the innate goodness of the man (a goodness he knew his friend would likely deny to his grave) that she adored him as much for his faults as for his glories. He found himself saying a silent prayer that Sherlock would have the wisdom to see just how lucky a man he was.

Several hours had passed, and both John could tell Tessa was weary. When he offered to get her a cab back to her flat, she insisted instead on staying no matter how late Sherlock might be. John could see she was determined, and it occurred to him it might be just the thing Sherlock might need to alert him to how carelessly he'd treated her, wake him to it before it became a bad habit that might cast a pall upon the love she clearly bore for him. So John passed her the afghan from the back of his chair, telling her to let him know if there was anything else she needed, before heading up to bed himself. Tessa thanked him warmly, and the look they shared of commiseration was one he never forgot; she was as deep in now in Sherlock's life, and like John, there was no exit desired.

After John left the room, Tessa curled up under it on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around her. Before closing her eyes, she actually buried her face a bit in one of the sofa pillows-for it smelled like Sherlock.

_(to be continued)_


	4. Three Little Words, Insurmountable Task

Sherlock returned at last, to find Tessa sleeping on their sofa. It made him realize just how long he'd been gone, and that he more than missed dinner. He walked quietly over to the sofa, sat on the edge of the coffee table, and paused a moment before waking her; she looked blissfully asleep and he wondered how she would react when she awoke. She stirred on her own, so he knew he'd have an answer soon.

Tessa opened her eyes and stretched briefly before focusing enough to see Sherlock was beside her. "What time is it?" she yawned.

"Just after 2am," he answered, "You waited for me." This was a novelty he didn't expect; Tessa didn't look angry and she'd stayed far beyond a reasonable time.

"Don't you know, Sherlock? I'll always wait for you." She said it softly and simply as a-matter-of-fact. "Did you find what you needed?"

He nodded the affirmative and added, "Look, I realize I spoiled our evening, but…" he trailed off, at a loss to adequately explain just how he had gotten carried away from her so thoughtlessly.

"The only thing I really missed was watching your marvelous mind work through the problem. You're damn sexy when you do that, and I hate to miss any of it." Tessa was smiling by now, completely disarming his self-defense of his boorish behavior. He couldn't help but give her that half-smile— the one he knew she adored, the one she'd said always made her want to kiss the corner of his mouth— "But maybe next time, you could keep _me_ in some small part of that amazing brain of yours. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, meaning to look self-deprecating, and tapped his right temple, "You're here already." But there was more; his heart suddenly felt very full. He took her hand, and before he realized he'd done so, placed it over his heart. "But it's here where you really live."

Tessa's eyes widened, and then she turned her head to face the wall. A few breaths passed—it seemed like longer to him, but it was truly only that—and she turned her head in profile to him. She looked as though she was reigning in some strong emotion or reply, finally saying in the softest of tones, "You really shouldn't say things like that, Sherlock. I might start to think you've fallen in love with me." She closed her eyes and a single tear rolled down the side of her face.

And then he knew, the moment was now, the time to face what he'd been denying and finally say it out loud. "You've made me feel things, Tessa. Things I'm can't….I'm not….things I'm not even equipped to describe." Sherlock looked at her plaintively, all but begging her to absolve him of saying the actual words.

Tessa understood of course. She couldn't love him like she did and not understand. "No need to say anything, my darling." She twined two fingers in the curls that framed his face, "My darling Sherlock." That she was claiming him so intimately made the center of his chest actually ache happily. "But you can take me to your bedroom right now and _show_ me." The huskiness in her voice was the last tumbler totip before it _all_ fell into place.

* * *

><p>Tessa was right when she'd told him he needn't say anything. She always was, in regard to sentiment and other such crimes of the heart. Sherlock had learned early on that this was her particular gift—honest compassion and an almost instinctive understanding of what motivated and moved the human spirit. These, her truest talents, were the source that endowed her performances with the veracity which made them so compelling.<p>

She had known he could not speak his feelings aloud; to say those three little words was an insurmountable hurdle. But he knew that to _show_ her would be no challenge at all—for Tessa had taught him many things, both by her tender examples and by his amorous experiences with her. Sherlock was eager to give to her, by action, what he could not by speech. He undressed her very slowly, taking his time, touching and teasing her, lingering where Tessa was most sensitive, eliciting dulcet sounds of pleasure. She clung to him throughout, her body speaking the very same language, but he was ever in the lead.

This surely was a new experience for him, demonstrating the depth of his feelings in even the barest of touches. Sherlock kept the pace slow and steady, with a patience she herself had schooled in him, until Tessa couldn't take it anymore, practically begging him, "Now please, do it now." As soon as he entered her, Tessa began to orgasm, her hips bucking to meet his, her moans full and raw and so sweet to his ears. Sherlock slowed his movements, astonished that she had responded so strongly, so soon.

Tessa was panting beneath him, her eyes half-lidded. "Don't worry, there will be more," she told him, moaning again, softly this time. She pulled his face close and covered his skin with kisses tender as down, whispering his name, calling him darling, calling him hers.

Sherlock had already known, on the most fundamental level, that Tessa was his, known from their first intimacies. He realized now how fully he was hers; and even more, how much he had _longed_ to finally belong to someone in this way. The physical pleasure he felt—delicious and deep and undeniably satisfying—could not match the euphoria of understanding how deeply she loved him.

Tessa was telling him as much, telling him she loved him again and again. Their many nights of practice now making perfect the act they were sharing, she spoke words he'd never dreamed of hearing. As she came once again, her legs wrapped tight around his, the waves of her climax pulling him deeper still, she was saying it over and over "Oh god, how I love you," her breath catching at times in her rapture, "Oh Sherlock, I love you so." It was that which finally sent him over the edge, to spend himself inside her, even as her whispered declarations made their home within his breast.

Then they were both catching their breath, inhaling in rhythm with one another in the aftermath. Tessa's mouth was against his ear, and she whispered "Stay inside me, please. Just a little while longer. I don't want to let you go just yet. Please." Sherlock's heart again felt full to overflowing.

Yet he still couldn't say the actual words, though he knew that he should. Tessa, gazing up at him, saw it writ on his features. She cupped his face in her hand, running her thumb across his lower lip. Her smile was serene and filled with understanding, "I know, my darling, I know." Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he could give her that last measure she so deserved. Tessa waited until he opened them again, finally telling him "Just promise me you'll look at me again like you are looking at me now and that will be enough"

A little while later, as he lay back upon his pillow, Tessa curled against him, nuzzling his skin as they settled in to sleep, he spoke at last. Sotto voce, but with deep resonance of feeling, words he was sure fell short, but nevertheless came from his heart, "I adore you, you know." Tessa brushed her lips against his neck and murmured "Yes".

The gentle acceptance in her voice—and he had never expected any less—was a catalyst of sorts, and to his surprise he found he couldn't stop at simply that. These words came haltingly at first, but then began to flow as his certainty in them grew, "You've believed in me from the very beginning. You believed I have a heart. So many others—I've been told so many times I don't have one. Even John," he motioned with his head to the bedroom door, "has said as much a time or two. And there's times I more than half believed it. But you, you saw it from the first."

Tessa was so silent, he worried for a moment he had misjudged the right thing to say. Several heartbeats passed before he realized her answer-salt tears against his skin. She had never been shy about shedding tears before him—it was her way, for her heart ran deep—but Sherlock knew that these were of the happiest sort. She held on to him even tighter, sighing long and deep. It was the only encouragement he needed to continue, his voice now soft with wonder, "If anyone in the world had the power to break my heart, it would be you. But you never would."

"Never, my love," she answered, rising up so her face hovered over his. If Sherlock had asked, she would've told him the joy in her voice, the joy reflected in her eyes, was from seeing him at long last realize these truths, and finally speak them aloud.

* * *

><p>It was when John carried his coffee mug into the front room, to drink while reading the morning paper, that he noticed several things. Tessa's clutch and light-weight coat on the chair where she'd left them when she first arrived the evening before. The afghan pushed carelessly to one end of the sofa, where she had waited for Sherlock to return. And her shoes sitting on the floor near the couch, where she'd placed them before curling up to go to sleep. John smiled, nodding his head approvingly, knowing the night must have ended more happily for the two of them than he ever would have expected.<p> 


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